SNAFU
by scrub456
Summary: When the normalcy of 221b Baker Street (and all the madness said normalcy entails) is disrupted by a morning of unexpected calm, John realizes he may have missed something important. A bit of epic best friends fluff. **chapter 2 is a bonus/extended scene, just for laughs.**
1. Chapter 1

**THURSDAY MORNING**

By all measurable standards, it was a perfectly typical Thursday.

If one's parameters for what constitutes "typical" were set by the mind numbingly dull expectations of a society perfectly content to while away its bleak existence in vapid mediocrity.

As traditional societal constructs, of a general rule, were eschewed by the residents of 221b Baker Street, a _typical Thursday_ logically translated into _atypical_ , often resulting in unrest and, not surprisingly, disaster.

And disaster, as one could easily conclude, would immediately, and most welcomely, salvage the day from the soul crushing melancholy of a socially acceptable "typical" day.

John Watson recognized immediately that the day was off kilter when he awoke feeling fully rested.

For the first time in weeks. _Possibly_ months.

Before his alarm had an opportunity to jolt him awake.

Unencumbered by the residual unease of a nightmare.

And without the appraising, laser focused, gaze of the world's only consulting detective fixed on him, impatiently willing him awake.

Waking early wasn't the problem. John was, by nature, an early riser. Years of pre-dawn reveille in the military had seen to that.

No, the problem was that he felt good. Really good, if he were being completely honest with himself.

It was unnerving.

And there was something... _something_ nagging at him, just around the periphery of his recollection. The something seemed important, but was kept at bay by the general feeling of comfortable well being.

How very annoying.

He considered the previous day's itinerary, in the hope of unearthing what it was he couldn't recall from the recesses of his mind.

_  
 **WEDNESDAY**

John had been literally tumbled from his bed by an overzealous Sherlock before 3:00 AM. "A case John! There's a case. An honest to God nine! No time to waste, get dressed! Lestrade's waiting! We have to get there before Anderson _touches_ anything or contaminates the scene by breathing!"

"Sher..."

" _No. Time. John!_ " Already buttoned into his great coat, scarf wrapped securely around his neck, collar effectively popped, Sherlock was rifling through John's bureau, launching socks, pants, and a blue... no, oatmeal... jumper backwards at his flat mate.

"Sherlock," John grumbled as he disentangled himself from his blankets and pushed himself up off the floor to sit on the edge of the bed.

Sherlock moved to the closet, draped a pair of John's jeans over his shoulder, and inspected first a plaid and then a blue button up. He shrugged in resignation, shoved the plaid back into the closet and turned to John in exasperation. "John."

"Out." John yawned and stretched.

"John. _A nine_."

"Sherlock." John pulled off his t-shirt, stopped as realization dawned, and stared at his friend. Sherlock glared. " _OUT_. I'm not dressing in front of you. Go make tea. I'll be right down."

"Kettle's... indisposed at the moment..." Sherlock averted his eyes. "Lestrade called during an experiment."

"You _promised_." With a sigh, John pinched the bridge of his nose.

"It's not toxic. It will be perfectly safe once you wash it. And sterilize it."

" _OUT._ " John lunged after Sherlock, and manhandled him out of the room. He slammed and locked the door.

"A nine, John. Hurry." Sherlock urgently reminded him.

It wasn't a nine.

When all was said and done, it was barely a five.

A disappointment, even by John's standards.

By 8:30 AM John was soaked to the bone. Sherlock had sent him, in the pouring frigid rain, to search a skip behind the apartment complex for the empty bottle of ethyl acetate. The one with the purple lid. It was _vital_ to the case.

It wasn't.

Vital, that is.

Nor had it made its way out of the flat.

And it was the pink lid.

At 10:10 John was _encouraged_ (translation: grabbed by the back of his jacket and dragged away from the counter) to abandon the coffee he had ordered, and paid for, at the café before it was ready. He was fairly confident the barista had written her number on the cup, and equally convinced the intrusion was intentional.

12:07 found John caked in mud to his knees as he trudged along the river bank looking for a shoe abandoned in the muck by the suspect.

The suspect made an appearance at 12:18. By 12:32 both the suspect and John were being fished from the Thames. John's own left shoe had found its way into a muddy grave, never to be seen again.

It was with a great deal of reluctance that Sherlock would even entertain the idea that John should return to Baker Street. While John had been insistent, he had come very near conceding to Sherlock's persistence that the case might be salvaged as a seven if they could just examine the victim's body once more in the morgue. To his credit, D.I. Lestrade, who would ordinarily shake his head in resignation and leave the idiot flat mates to their own devices, was incensed that Sherlock appeared oblivious to the state of John's person. And he was downright livid that the doctor was actually considering following the consulting detective into what would surely end up being a fruitless endeavor.

"You're mad! The both of you!" Lestrade shouted as he retrieved John's coat from the pier where he had tossed it before diving after the criminal. He thrust the jacket and a blanket into John's hands, and forced him into the back of a patrol car. "You're soaked, very nearly in shock, you reek, and you're missing a shoe for God's sake. If you don't go home right now, I'll ban you _both_ from the next crime scene." He slammed the car door before John could respond, and turned on Sherlock. "How dare you..."

"John is an adult, and as such is free to decide for himself where his time and efforts are best spent." Sherlock condescended, though he broke eye contact with Lestrade long enough to glance at John. If there was a moment that concern clouded those focused eyes, it went unnoticed by Lestrade who thumped the side of the car twice and shouted to the officer to head to Baker Street.

John caught a glimpse as Sherlock, who appeared more than a little agitated, launched into an animated explanation of something. Lestrade's head snapped up to attention, and John was taken aback when the D.I. scrubbed his hand over his hair then turned to watch after the retreating car with a concerned look on his face.

 _A little peculiar, yeah?_

The remainder of the day had been uneventful. John decided to bin his lone shoe, socks, and the jeans he'd been wearing. Definitely not worth the effort. He had tossed everything else in the laundry, and showered. He dressed and considered meeting Sherlock at the morgue, but decided on tea first. After decontaminating the kettle, as well as the kitchen table and most of the counter space, and a second _absolutely_ necessary shower, he settled into his chair dressed in his pajamas and dressing gown, wrapped in a blanket, with a cup of tea.

His shoulder ached a bit, but it was the sort of ache that followed strenuous, if harrowing, activity. The sign of a productive and (grudgingly) satisfying day.

Sherlock turned up just after 5:00 PM, bursting into the flat, eager to regale John with the deductions and details of the day's adventure. Despite the fact that John had been there for, and physically done, most of the adventuring. As it turned out, the consulting detective's solo trip to the morgue had, as Lestrade had infuriatingly predicted, provided no additional insight. Alas, the case was closed as a disappointing five. The customary Chinese food was ordered, to be delivered, as Sherlock couldn't be expected to fetch it, and despite his flat mate's rather compelling arguments, there really was a limit to the number of times John would willingly change his clothes in a single day.

A few hours were spent pleasantly beside the fire as the friends verbally sparred over the sheer ridiculousness of the titles John selected for his blog posts, Sherlock's morally questionable (albeit, not unwarranted) retaliation for Mycroft's meddling, and the general idiocy of the modern criminal ilk in London. They laughed more than they bickered and consumed copious amounts of tea. In high spirits, John excused himself to bed a little earlier than normal, exhausted by the day. Sherlock waved him on with a genuine smile, but looked on with some apprehension as his flat mate ascended the stairs to his room.

John collapsed into his bed, stretched out his weary muscles, and fell asleep to the gentle strains of violin music.

_  
 **THURSDAY MORNING**

 _Nothing._

He recalled nothing of importance. But the nagging feeling that John had missed something significant still lurked in the recesses of his consciousness.

Dressing quickly for his shift at the clinic, John dug an old pair of shoes from the back of his closet. A little worse for wear, but at least they were a pair. John imagined an archaeologist some years from now finding his shoe and trying to decipher his life story based on the wear of the sole and the scuff on the heel. Suddenly the archaeologist was Sherlock, and he was spouting off all manner of incredible insights about this prehistoric, unevolved man. He laughed to himself as he descended the steps to the sitting room.

"What's funny?" Sherlock mumbled from the depths of the couch.

"Nothing. Just go back to sleep."

"Not sleeping. Thinking."

John huffed a laugh. "Right. That's what I meant."

"You're in a good mood," Sherlock peered over his shoulder to inspect his friend. "It's annoying. Stop it."

"I'll give it my best effort." John smirked and headed to the toilet. "Give me a few minutes and I'll make tea."

"Your best effort? We're all doomed." Sherlock scoffed as he burrowed more deeply into the couch.

"Heard that!" John called from the kitchen.

"That was my intent," the amorphous pile of cushions and consulting detective snarked.

A surprisingly sturdy unopened piece of correspondence from yesterday's post was whipped expertly across the room, an unforgiving corner striking just between Sherlock's shoulder blades. "Oh look, I'm feeling murderous again," John retorted.

Sherlock sat bolt upright and blinked. "Murderous? I think the word you're looking for is _murdered_."

John laughed outright at that, but decided it would be prudent to lock himself in the loo. Sherlock, after all, was not above revenge.

Ten minutes later, hair combed, teeth brushed and face washed, John emerged cautiously."Sherlock?" He let his guard down ever so slightly as he stepped into the kitchen.

There was actually time for breakfast and a quick look at the morning papers before he had to leave.

Speaking of breakfast.

He heard the approach before he saw it, and ducked at the last second. A piece of dry toast careened into the door frame above him, and showered John with crumbs.

"Real mature, yeah?" He stood upright and brushed crumbs from his left shoulder. "You missed..." John froze where he was and stared back down at his shoulder.

No.

The date. He needed to know the date.

The doctor opened his mouth to ask the question when he was hit square in the chest by a piece of toast, followed rapidly by a second. He juggled them clumsily for a moment, but managed to hold onto both slices as he stepped into kitchen.

"Your reflexes are improving I see. Ducked one, caught two. Impressive, Doctor. Perhaps I should..." Sherlock stopped short when he noticed the drawn look on his friend's face. "John?" He moved to step into John's path, but was met with two slices of dry toast slapped to his chest and a gentle shove that spoke no malice, yet simply begged to be given passage.

John mumbled to himself as he dropped absently into one of the wooden chairs at the table in the sitting room. He sifted through the mounds of accumulated notebooks, newspapers, and other assorted paraphernalia until he unearthed a wall calendar that had clearly seen better days.

Heh. John sniffed at the bad pun despite himself.

Checking the year to make sure it was current, John flipped the pages open to the right month. He checked his mobile to be sure of the date and ran his fingers along the printed numbers.

There.

In the square designated for yesterday. A tiny red **X** , and clearly the pen stroke was his own left handed scrawl. His fingers hovered over the cryptic marking for a hesitant moment before they clenched into a tight fist.

The calendar slipped from his trembling left hand.

"John?" Sherlock stood behind him. "Are you all right?" He gingerly placed a hand on his friend's shoulder.

His _right_ shoulder. Not the injured left shoulder.

Because Sherlock knew. _Of course_ he knew.

John turned on Sherlock as he wrenched himself away from the intrusive hand and out of the chair. "You! How could... You didn't have any right! You..."

"John, you aren't making sense." Sherlock maintained a deceptively calm demeanor as he took a tiny step nearer his hyperventilating flat mate. "I think you need to sit down. And perhaps you should try breathing as well."

A deliberate breath in, a purposeful breath out. "You." John pointed at Sherlock, his tone severe. "You distracted me."

The consulting detective scoffed in response. "I distracted you? The very thought is laughable. You on the other hand are a constant source of bothersome distraction; with your," Sherlock waved his hand dismissively in John's direction, "awkward typing. And thinking. And... and..."

A quiet fierceness settled on John's face as he stood at attention. Captain Watson commandeered the situation. Sherlock shrank back a few steps. "Yesterday, Sherlock. You distracted me _yesterday_. You do remember yesterday, don't you?"

"Of course I remember yesterday! Disappointing case, delightful evening in. I believe yesterday was a Wednesday, was it not?" To the casual observer, Sherlock's response would have appeared positively demure. One would have expected the batting of eyelashes, simply for effect.

John was having none of it.

"Oh well done. It _was_ a Wednesday. A very specific one at that." Aforementioned casual observers might reason that John had been affected by the consulting detective's coyness, based upon the doctor's cheeky retort and the way the corner of his mouth ticked up into a rakish, lopsided smile.

Sherlock recognized something else entirely.

Rapidly scanning his hard drive, Sherlock recalled the accosting stench of chlorine (chemical element Cl. atomic number 17. _stop_.), a lilting Irish voice (a poor imitation of... _no._ stop.) spewing sing-song venomous threats, a vest originally designed to protect re-purposed with Semtex and ominous cables, the weight of cold steel in his hand, and brilliant, courageous, foolhardy John and the slight upward quirk of his clever tight-lipped smile. _It's fine. Better us here than countless others later. Do it now._

John Watson was wearing his battle armor.

He deserved better. Especially from the one he considered his best friend (however misguided that designation may be). And most definitely because the explanation was so very simple. Logical. Obvious.

"You were in pain." Mortified by his own sudden, tactless exclamation, Sherlock brushed past John and flopped into his armchair dramatically in an effort to deflect attention from the uncharacteristic, unexpected crimson shame that colored his face.

"I was... I, uhm... Sorry?" John turned slowly to face his flat mate; battle armor stripped away, guarded vulnerability left in its place.

The two men stared at one another, unmoving. Uncertain.

"Last year, on that date, on the... the anniversary, you were in pain. You spent several days prior in a sullen, and rather unbecoming, self-deprecating mood, during which you worked yourself into a tense and miserable depression. On the day of, you awoke to an aching shoulder, the severity of which I had not witnessed before, nor since. The pain was such that the tremor in your left hand was nearly constant, impeding your ability to treat patients. Also, despite not having been afflicted by it for quite some time, your limp returned noticeably enough that you required the use of your cane for nearly a week after, resulting in a self-imposed, and frankly _ridiculous_ , exile from attending crime scenes. And let us not overlook the nightmares..."

John held up his hand. "Thanks for that. I remember." He slumped into his armchair with a sigh, scrubbed a hand over his face, and considered what Sherlock had just reported.

The day Captain John Watson was shot in the line of duty had been the worst day of his life. By allowing the enemy to get the best of him, he had made a mockery of his training and chosen profession. He failed the young soldier he had been tending to; the injury to his dominant shoulder had prevented him from administering aid, and the young man had been returned to his family in a flag draped coffin. In the selfishness of bleeding out, his body had demanded resources that should have been used to save the lives of those more worthy. He had even had the audacity to appeal to a deity he wasn't certain even existed, in order to preserve his own life.

Of course none of those things were true. Captain Watson was an excellent soldier, and an even better doctor. He took his training and duties very seriously; he wouldn't have achieved his rank otherwise. The young soldier would have died under his care, whether or not John had been shot that day. When Captain Watson was injured, his unit unified in a way they never had before; their only concern being keeping him alive. Two men gave their all simply to ensure the safe extraction of Captain Watson; to them, there was none more worthy. And it seemed the mysterious deity had far greater plans for Captain Watson as healer and protector in the civilian sector.

But on the worst day of his life, it was difficult for John to see past what had been stripped from him.

While in hospital, at an impromptu ceremony, John had been bestowed awards in recognition of his sacrifice and valor. The colorful ribbons and bits of metal only served to remind him of his own weakness. Unable to stand under his own power, nor function without narcotics for the pain, the day the military celebrated John's failures easily took the place of the previous worst day of his life.

And then there was the day he was officially invalided from service, rejected by his country, and inflicted upon civilized society. That had, by far, been the worst day of John's life. The only redeeming factor being the service weapon that had _officially_ been lost in combat, but _unofficially_ held a place of sacred importance in the top drawer of his desk.

After that, John met Sherlock. There were hard days, exhausting days, and days that wore on his last nerve, but the absolute worst days of his life had melted into distant memories in favor of the exciting, brilliant, heady days spent tearing through London after his very own resident madman.

He was completely blindsided by the impact the anniversary of the day he had been shot had on him. His shoulder ached the way it had when he had contracted the infections in hospital. The inflammation amplified the post-injury dodgy nature of the nerves in his arm. The memories flooded back and triggered the fresh hell of renewed nightmares, self-loathing, and psychosis resulting in the return of his limp.

A simple date, numbers printed on the page of a calendar, had set him off. And the anniversary of the destruction of the life he once had quickly became the single worst day of John Watson's life.

Sherlock was correct.

He had been in pain.

So that resplendent, incredible, amazing, mad genius had stored that simple fact away in his extraordinary mind, and when the anniversary date approached once more, Sherlock had rescued John from himself in the best way he knew how. He occupied John's mind with the things that exemplified his life now, this second chance he had been granted.

And it worked.

"I was in pain, so you distracted me." John spoke slowly, deliberately. He looked up to see his friend scrutinizing his every movement, analyzing every blink and every breath. He waited for a response, allowing the evaluation to continue.

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, his features were schooled in familiar cold detachment, his defenses on the ready. "Yes."

John nodded once. "Right."

So many things could have been spoken at that moment. Words of gratitude, of caring and compassion. Glimpses into the past could have been revealed. Promises for the future made. But Sherlock would reject all as sentimental, and John was never particularly fond of vocalizing such things anyway.

Instead, John thanked Sherlock in the only manner he knew would truly be appreciated. "I'm already late for work. Let me call Sarah and tell her I won't be in, and maybe Lestrade will call with a case. Or you can pick one from the website."

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at John, and smiled the genuine smile reserved only for him. Of course he understood. "Lestrade texted while you were hiding in the loo earlier. Looks like a solid seven. He sent the address. I already took the liberty of contacting the clinic." His smile shifted into a haughty smirk.

John huffed a laugh. "Typical."


	2. Chapter 2

**Wednesday morning, at the café...**

Hannah blushed when she realized she was using her flirty grin with her customer. Of course she _wanted_ to flirt with him, but she was at work, and it wouldn't be appropriate.

Besides, the other girls, Tracie and Sam, and the new guy, Timothy, all thought she was crazy. They all favored the intense, brooding, dark haired one with the long coat and the pronounced cheekbones, despite the fact that he never purchased anything, and he was always rude to them.

But not Hannah. She was drawn to the kindness that seemed to radiate from the blonde man. He was shorter than his friend. His manners and his jumpers made him appear unassuming, but Hannah caught a glimpse of something wild under the surface one afternoon when he had dashed after a purse thief. When he returned, only slightly out of breath, purse in tow, the danger was gone from his countenance, and in its wake genuine compassion for the elderly victim. He had reunited her with her purse, and purchased her tea for her.

Hannah gave him his coffee, and a complimentary scone, "on the house." Never mind that they weren't allowed to do that, so it all came out of her paycheck.

"How are you today, Hannah?" John smiled back at her.

"Oh, you know. Same old." Hannah shrugged and grinned her flirty grin. Just this once. There were hardly any customers around. No one would even notice. "What can I get for you today, John? The usual?"

She only knew his first name, and that only because she had asked him so she could write it on his cup the first time he came in.

"Large black coffee, whatever's on tap today. And a small Earl Grey, milk, two sugars, for my friend." John indicated by nodding in the direction of the taller man. Hannah had been watching him pace impatiently near the front door, but something had given him a reason to pause. He stepped up very near to John, so near in fact that Hannah instinctively took a step back , despite the counter separating them. John hadn't noticed until he stuck his wallet back in his pocket and bumped the other man with his elbow.

With a start, John spun around. " _God, Sherlock._ Back up. You startled me!"

The other man, Sherlock ( _weird_. Timothy giggled) scowled. He narrowed his eyes and stared at John, then focused on Hannah and her rapidly receding grin, and then back to John. He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Hurry. Up." He scowled again, and returned to his pacing. Nearer this time.

Watching John.

"Sorry about that. He's on a case." John smiled, but the easiness of it was gone, and the poor man just looked exhausted. Hannah noticed for the first time that John was completely drenched, and smelled as if he'd been digging through garbage.

Surely not.

" _We're_ on a case, John. And the suspect is going to get away if you don't hurry."

Hannah forced a smile as she set about preparing the order. If John said this man, _Sherlock_ , was his friend, then he must be. John wouldn't lie about that.

Well, she didn't know that for certain. But he really didn't seem the type to lie about whether or not someone was his friend.

Hannah placed the tea on the counter, and John's lovely smile returned. She smiled back.

Sherlock growled.

John looked back at him nervously.

This was all wrong. John was a kind, generous, friendly man. A doctor, she assumed. He'd performed CPR on a customer one day, and had given the medics thorough instructions when they arrived. She supposed he could have been a medic himself. Or just a good Samaritan, very well versed in first aid. But doctor just suited him, so in her mind, he would always be Doctor John.

This intense "friend" seemed dangerous, and not in the appealing way, like John. Hannah thought he was probably manipulative, and she had witnessed the verbal abuses he was capable of.

Was John in danger?

She glanced from Sherlock to John, grabbed a large size paper cup and scribbled on the side. John noticed, and Hannah almost swore she saw him blush. Sherlock, of course, observed all of this as well.

Hannah turned to fill the cup with coffee and heard a tussle behind her. "Hey!" John yelped. "Sherlock, let go."

Sherlock, patience spent, and fed up with John's incessant need to flirt, had grabbed John by the collar of his jacket, and dragged him backwards out the front door and into the rain.

"Oh my God," whispered Sam. "He's so hot."

Hannah glared at her. "Did you just see what I saw? And you still fancy him? He's a lunatic!"

"Do you think they're _together_? I bet they're together," Tracie pouted

"No!" A resounding, hopeful chorus.

Timothy stepped up behind them then. "Oooh, 'Nah... Were you going to give the short one _your number_? He's so plain!"

Hannah shook her head no, and turned away. She dumped the coffee and glanced at the cup one last time before she hid it in the bin in the back, embarrassed by the presumption.

 _Are you in danger? Blink twice for yes. I can get help._

 _Ridiculous._ She was being absolutely ridiculous. John could take care of himself, right?


End file.
